Thursday, April 1, 2004

More Fool I

Almost nine years ago, I wrote a book, a mostly-autobiographical story about a twenty-something guy named "Brian", two failed romances and the pursuit of a perfect third that I called Falling in Love with a Poor Man. I mainly did it to prove to myself that I could, having earlier aborted two other long-form stories.

But finish it I did and, having accomplished that, I would have put it in a drawer and forgotten it (remembering one professor's admonishment that "every journalist has a novel in him, and that is precisely where it should stay") if a generous friend hadn't read it and insisted I let him pass it along to a literary agent of his acquaintance.

The agent was encouraging, although that encouragement came mostly in the form of suggestions for tweaks and edits that wounded my pride of authorship more than slightly. I made two or three revisions over the course of several months and, for a while, entertained dreams that I might actually have written the Great Gay American Novel and would see it published.

After about three years, during which I imagined my neatly bound manuscript languishing on the desks of editors at every major and most minor publishing houses, I had all but given up that dream.

In 1998, though, I found myself sitting in a hotel bar at a conference in Atlanta with a friend who'd recently had his first novel published, plucked off the slush pile by a wunderkind young editor. He encouraged me to call my agent right there and then and see that Poor Man got into the right hands.

And that's how, six months later, I found myself sitting across the table from Rob Weisbach, listening to him enthusiastically praise my writing and making me an offer to publish it under the auspices of his eponymous imprint at William Morrow. I was on Cloud 9, visions of catapulting onto the New York Times best-seller list before I was 30 returning to my mind.

That high lasted about as long as it took to recover from the hangover I'd earned from round after round celebrating that night with friends in the West Village. Weisbach's tenure at Morrow ended shortly thereafter and Poor Man returned to being a pipe dream. Shortly after that, having more or less abandoned my freelance career to become a PR flack for a local arts center, I stopped answering "writer" when people at parties asked me what I did.

I hadn't thought about the book in a long time, not in its substantial form anyway, although I'd occasionally trot out bits of it as excerpts on this website or to perform for readings, notably at Fray Day or PROMO's Words of Love.

And then last July, out of the blue, I got a phone call from a woman I'd never met, offering to change my life.

Chloe Solomon introduced herself as an agent with Curtis Brown Ltd., mentioned some names I recognized, explained the circuitous route by which she'd come into possession of my manuscript and asked if I'd consider letting her pitch it to someone she thought might have an interest in the story.

"Sure," I said, refusing to get excited and assuming nothing would come of it.

Something came of it.

In late February, I signed a contract with HBO Films. Falling in Love With a Poor Man or, at least, a screenplay based on it by a marvelously funny and gifted Chicago screenwriter named Kelly Powell, is going to be a movie. The working title is More Fool I and, if everything goes as planned, you'll get to see it in the fall or winter of next year.

(Yes, I'm shivering as I type this.)

It's been a whirlwind these past few months, a chaos of daily e-mail exchanges and occasional trips to the Windy City to consult with Kelly. Through it all, for both legal reasons and because I became suddenly, rabidly superstitious, I've shared the ongoing process with only a couple of my closest confidantes. Anyone who knows me can attest how difficult it is for me to keep good news to myself. It's been utter agony not to crow at the top of my lungs every time someone asks at happy hour or the grocery, "So, what's new with you?".

There's more.

For years, I've sworn I would never leave St. Louis. As I've often told anyone who'd listen, I've traveled all over the country and have yet to find anyplace I'd rather live. My family is here. My chosen family is here. Ted Drewes is here! I love this city and always will. It will always be home.

But in late May, I'll be moving to Chicago. I was fortunate on my last visit to find a great apartment in East Lakeview (the sole disappointment of the past few months was not getting the one I really wanted in Boystown proper) and I finished all the paperwork yesterday.

My agreement with HBO includes an option for a second film, based on the outline of a story I submitted last year about a group of friends who, coincidentally, somewhat resemble my buddy Jeff, The Giant Queen, The Twins, Jill the Lip-Schtick Lesbian and a thirty-something guy named "Brian", the same romantically cynical fellow at the center of More Fool I.

Kelly Powell and I will be collaborating on the second screenplay and on the ongoing work based on Poor Man. In addition, the plan is that principal filming of More Fool I will be done in Chicago -- where the story is now set -- and (how weird is it that this is what I'm most jazzed about?) I'll get to have at least a small part of my own in the movie.

So that's the news. I've got six months worth of stories saved up about all the confusion and craziness this wonderful, scary, thrilling thing has brought into my life. More than a few of them will spill out here in the days and weeks to come.

Those same days and weeks, however, will also be filled with more mundane concerns, such as finding a mover, wrapping up my job at The Rep (a move made all the more complicated by a recent, unexpected staff departure in my department) and about three million details. And, of course, a few teary "so-long" (not goodbye!) happy hours and dinners with the folks who make St. Louis so hard to leave. So if there are the same long gaps hereabout that have marked the past few months, I apologize upfront.

I'm just stupidly happy right now, and enormously grateful for the love and support I've felt every day, from my family, friends, dog, drinking buddies and you, the readers of The BradLands.

"Thank you" just doesn't say enough. I once thought it might but, well, "More fool I."

Further: If you've read this far, I encourage you to read this as well.